Now it's autumn, but
you would never know.
-- J.Ceravolo.
Came across Ceravolo (like Ungaretti) thanks to Tom. It's nice to have these thick books by your side, work through them, which means not working, accepting, intuiting since you don't have the high skill or the fine perception. Reading by the evening light. Kenenth Irby, too. Where have we got to there? The early 1970s, I think.
Today I'm told it's a full eight degrees hotter than the average for this time of the year. The seasons usually turn by the 15th of the month: the dry summer days of blinding light and suffocating nights give way to the monsoon by July 15th; autumn is supposed to roll in, pinching the mornings and evenings with its cool fingers by Sept. 15th; Spring is officially declared on the 15th of February.
But now everything is out off kilter. Everything is doing its best to break down the light, filter it to something more manageable: the dust, the tree branches, the crows dancing, human memory...
Frank speech, the Greeks said (not freedom of speech). As if to say..avoid abstractions in favour of reality.
If there was time we'd speak; there'd be no telling. Where to start, but the middle. The words from the early years: experimental. Learn to find your own voice, rhythm, silences. The old country lettered with arching old-stone bridges. What do you have to say for yourself?
Begin in the middle of Ceravolo, pick out the page on which it begins. The book traveled a couple of thousand miles to reach my incomprehension. We lived a life like that, not knowing. From your house on Vere Street five roads radiating out. None took you there, for all you knew. How many miles have you walked in your life? Honestly.
There isn't an anchor anywhere, the drift of the world, the drift.
[I'll begin again]
It was too late. The autumn light fell at wide angles on your face, revealing what you always were. In front of you, though you don't look at it, a map, an ancient forest, green time, a cafe latte. "I am in the middle of my life", am passing through it. Another summer has sunk and my heart with it, all those heavy, ripe hours now distilled to a clear moment. And I am here. You still know how to kill me, she thought, silently, the most inward of her dreamsongs always coming to her from a lofty distance-and then checked herself to make sure her lips hadn't moved.
"I am more composed than him," she mused, as a shadow fell on her bare shoulder. There is no turning now, only one continuous season. Now it's autumn, but you'd never know. I will become a statue, and wait. I've done that before. The drift of the world, oh the drift...
you would never know.
-- J.Ceravolo.
Came across Ceravolo (like Ungaretti) thanks to Tom. It's nice to have these thick books by your side, work through them, which means not working, accepting, intuiting since you don't have the high skill or the fine perception. Reading by the evening light. Kenenth Irby, too. Where have we got to there? The early 1970s, I think.
Today I'm told it's a full eight degrees hotter than the average for this time of the year. The seasons usually turn by the 15th of the month: the dry summer days of blinding light and suffocating nights give way to the monsoon by July 15th; autumn is supposed to roll in, pinching the mornings and evenings with its cool fingers by Sept. 15th; Spring is officially declared on the 15th of February.
But now everything is out off kilter. Everything is doing its best to break down the light, filter it to something more manageable: the dust, the tree branches, the crows dancing, human memory...
Frank speech, the Greeks said (not freedom of speech). As if to say..avoid abstractions in favour of reality.
If there was time we'd speak; there'd be no telling. Where to start, but the middle. The words from the early years: experimental. Learn to find your own voice, rhythm, silences. The old country lettered with arching old-stone bridges. What do you have to say for yourself?
Begin in the middle of Ceravolo, pick out the page on which it begins. The book traveled a couple of thousand miles to reach my incomprehension. We lived a life like that, not knowing. From your house on Vere Street five roads radiating out. None took you there, for all you knew. How many miles have you walked in your life? Honestly.
There isn't an anchor anywhere, the drift of the world, the drift.
[I'll begin again]
It was too late. The autumn light fell at wide angles on your face, revealing what you always were. In front of you, though you don't look at it, a map, an ancient forest, green time, a cafe latte. "I am in the middle of my life", am passing through it. Another summer has sunk and my heart with it, all those heavy, ripe hours now distilled to a clear moment. And I am here. You still know how to kill me, she thought, silently, the most inward of her dreamsongs always coming to her from a lofty distance-and then checked herself to make sure her lips hadn't moved.
"I am more composed than him," she mused, as a shadow fell on her bare shoulder. There is no turning now, only one continuous season. Now it's autumn, but you'd never know. I will become a statue, and wait. I've done that before. The drift of the world, oh the drift...
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